Like many, I can't say I was shocked to hear the news of Amy Winehouse's passing. I feel so saddened by it—both the reality of her death, and my lack of shock.
Maybe it's partly due to the curse of 27.
Maybe it's because I first fell in love with her, and that voice, when I first heard "Stronger than Me" while I was living in London.
Maybe it's because her swipes of eyeliner just got more and more dramatic, to the point of absurd, as Amy herself seemed more and more vulnerable.
Maybe it's because I loved the album Back to Black so goddamn much, and I had a feeling as soon as the first rehab cracks were made that there probably wasn't going to be a follow-up.
Or it might have even been how deeply affected I was by the title track, "Back to Black"—it might not have been a situation where he loved blow and I loved puff, but damn if I didn't cry for him on the kitchen floor, if we didn't only "say goodbye with words" as he went back to her "and I go back to black."
There was something about listening to Amy that made me relive every heartache, every guilt, every vulnerability.
Then there was that Rolling Stone cover article.
God, I love her music. My heart goes out to her family. Recently, when she had briefly started a tour, I watched a video of her attempts at performing. I sat at my desk and felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. I felt scared for this. And then it happened.
"I don't know why I got so attached":
And now, the final frame:
Amy, I hope you're at peace now. Just know, "for you, I was a flame."